


Skin Deep

by distantstarlight



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Feels, I read a prompt and went with it, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, One-Shot, Soulmates, you can thank Tumblr for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 23:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are soul-mates but have never met, they have no idea who is waiting for them at the other end of their connection. Their lives go on as they live separately, never once meeting but undeniably connected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skin Deep

**Author's Note:**

> I got this idea after reading a Tumblr post about soul-mates being able to inscribe things on their skin and their partner would see it. This idea really grabbed me so I grabbed it and made it into a short story.

 

[soul-mate prompt via Tumblr](http://distantstarlight.tumblr.com/post/140760282340/talkgentlytome-wheeeaboo-princess-tuna)

You never knew when you and your soulmate would connect. For a rare few, it happened right from the cradle, for most though, connections with soul-mates were forged right after puberty. John knew his soulmate when he was almost eight years old, the very first time a message appeared on the inside of his left arm. In neat block letters was the word “Greetings” that reached from little John’s inner elbow, all the way to his wrist.

The small boy stared, admiring the skill that had gone into the writing. Clearly his soulmate was older, and knew how to write properly. John was still having trouble with spelling, and he couldn’t quite shape all his letters perfectly but he worked at it. Since he wasn’t as good as writing as his soulmate John made a decision. Instead of words he would draw pictures. He was good at drawing and since he was at school, he had access to a full compliment of colored markers. Frowning in concentration John drew a picture of a flower that was growing in his mother’s garden. He didn’t know the name but it was dark purple, almost black, but it had the shiniest green leaves. John loved it. He wanted his soulmate to see something pretty that he liked.

When he was done, John had a large print word on one arm, and a colorful mess of colors on the other. As soon as school was done he ran all the way home and showed his mother. She’d hugged him tight, and kissed his head, “Your father and I knew when we were little too, congratulations my son.” She didn’t say anything about _when_ they would meet. John didn’t need to ask either. Everyone knew that just because you’d connected with your soulmate, it didn’t mean that you’d be meeting them soon. It took years sometimes before your paths crossed. Some people had tried to cheat, writing their addresses on their arms, their names even. It didn’t work. For some reason soulmates didn’t receive those sorts of messages. Scholars and philosophers around the world had struggled for millennia to figure out why, but no one ever discovered a reason.

John didn’t mind. He could wait to meet his soulmate properly, when they were ready to settle down together. Before then John had plans. He was going to become a doctor and help people. He was going to become a soldier too, to help people a different way. His sister had laughed at him, scornfully remarking that he could be one or the other, but not both. His mother had shushed Harry, telling John he could do anything he put his mind to, all it took was effort and perseverance.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

When Sherlock was only five he’d already completed most of the educational material required for children his twice age. Instead of being proud of this fact he was miserable. Mycroft knew so much more, _and_ he was smug about it. Sherlock would never catch up, but he tried, oh how he tried. It wasn’t his fault that his brother was so many years older, that wasn’t an excuse in his view. Instead, the boy spent all his waking hours struggling to understand one lesson after another, pushing himself to learn more and more, to be better than Mycroft who was good at maths and languages, and was developing an interest in history and law. Sherlock was determined to cover more topics at least. He’d know everything about everything before he was satisfied.

Sherlock was learning to play the violin. Mycroft had no skill whatever with music, so eagerly Sherlock embraced the art, learning all the symbols by heart. He was composing, or trying to, when he’d suddenly decided to write on his arm. The blank sheet music was frustrating, and Sherlock was curious about something. Mycroft had told him about soulmates, but Sherlock didn’t believe him, not really. After all, no one in their family seemed to have mysterious marks appearing on their body. Mycroft explained it was because he himself had not yet connected with his soulmate, and Papa was gone, so Mummy no longer got marks on her skin. Sherlock was still skeptical but loved his mother too much to ask her about Papa, whom she missed every single day. Instead he’d picked up a pen and carefully wrote a word on his left arm to say hello.

Nothing happened.

Satisfied that Mycroft was entirely mistaken about soulmates and the marks they could give he’d gone back to work on his project. He was attempting to draw a treble clef so it looked like the one in his book when he felt his arm almost tingle. With eyes widened in shock Sherlock watched as a simple picture manifested on his right arm, boldly colorful and childish. His soulmate! He examined every line intently. Clearly his soulmate was much younger, maybe still a baby. That was alright, one of them was bound to be younger than the other, it made sense now that he knew they were real. He had a soulmate, someone in the world who was perfect for him, a best friend he hadn’t met yet. He would probably have to grow a bit more before they met in person, certainly he would find them before he got _old_ and became a teen like Mycroft almost was. It was irrelevant anyway. He’d connected with his soulmate and Mycroft, though seven years older, had not. Clearly this was one of the many areas where Sherlock would always excel over his pompous older brother. Satisfied, the young boy unknowingly copied his soulmate, and went to find his mother to show her.

Mrs. Holmes was both sad and pleased that her baby had made the connection so young, her delight that he was paired with someone who would love and understand him like no other, but at the same time concerned that her impatient little genius wouldn’t be able to wait the long years that most certainly would occur before he found whoever it was who was destined for him. It would happen, it definitely would happen. Everyone met their soulmate eventually, it was a promise you could count on. Sherlock wasn’t good at waiting though, and all she could do was try to find more ways to keep him distracted until then.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Years had rolled by and John grew. He had a kind heart but a hot temper, a temper that his sister loved to pique, the casual malice between siblings an enjoyment she never tired of. Having a bully for a sister only helped John develop a level of patience and tolerance that would serve him well throughout his life. They scrapped often, but eventually John learned how to ignore her barbs and insults, to fend off her kicks and blows, to bandage his own cuts and bruises because mum and da worked all the time. He became self-sufficient and tough, and assuaged himself by drawing things for his soulmate to enjoy.

John was amazed with his soulmate who favored making notes on John’s left arm, so without intending it, Sherlock taught John different ways to do math, basic chemistry, several words in various languages, and music. In return John practiced his drawing skill, spending a part of every day creating something beautiful to thank his soulmate with, covering his right arm with works that became refined and more detailed as the years rolled by. They had an unusually close relationship for a couple who hadn’t even met in real life. They always seemed to know when the other was sad, or upset, new pictures or inscriptions showing up, remaining brilliant for exactly 24 hours before fading away, leaving their skin clear and bare once more.

Sometimes John was cheeky and drew his pictures on his belly, or his knee, just to tease. In return his soulmate would retaliate, covering huge patches of John’s body in complex mathematical formulas, or chemical equations. John loved it. His soulmate was obviously brilliant, and so the growing lad made note of everything, and researched it. Eventually all of it came in handy, especially after John enlisted, his advanced knowledge of maths and chemistry earning him high marks in medical school. He asked out every girl he met, hoping that somehow or other one of them would be the brilliant soul who was meant for him alone. He didn’t find her but the search was great fun.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Sherlock was often sad. He wondered why he couldn’t find his soulmate, surely they’d have come across each other by now! He’d decided years ago that he wasn’t going to be with anyone at all if it wasn’t his soulmate. No one else was worth the effort. Mycroft had finally connected, and Sherlock took some comfort in the fact that his brother hadn’t physically met his partner either, though whoever it was a dastardly rascal who drew skulls and crossbones in odd places, and was obviously fond of loud raucous music. How this person was supposed to be Mycroft’s perfect match was beyond Sherlock’s grasp, “When they are ready, they will meet, and when they do, all of it will make sense.” promised Mummy. She ought to know, from all accounts her bond with Papa had been extraordinary. “Be patient, little one. You both have paths to walk alone. There’s no avoiding life. Live it, and when you are ready, your soulmate will be too.”

By the time Sherlock was in boarding school full-time he was exasperated as well as annoyed with the tedium of it all. Mummy refused to allow him to skip grades, insisting that he needed time with people his own age more than he needed to study in advanced classes. Sherlock found all of them unbearably dull, pointless, and just…he didn’t like to use the word but…they were _stupid_. Ironically it was during one of those classes that Sherlock was introduced to the concept of illegal street drugs by way of a friendly warning lecture by a health advocate who had come to speak to all the classes one at a time. Much taken with this idea Sherlock procured a hefty sum of money from the accounts his mother had set up to provide for whatever sundries he might require, temporarily befriended one of the less dull people in his class who had the right connections, and discovered the delights of cocaine. He was only sixteen.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

The day John turned nineteen he enlisted. His latest girlfriend dumped him the second she found out so his mates took him out, and got him drunk. He woke the next day covered all over with cocks and rude words. Aghast and ashamed he scrubbed it all off, really, his mates had gone to far! It was one thing to pull one over on him, but somewhere in the world his soulmate was going about with the same crassness on their body. As soon as he was clean John took up his markers and drew the loveliest things he could think over every part of himself that had been vandalized. After that day he made sure to draw the prettiest flowers, and birds, even glittering insects, whatever was beautiful, on his arm for an entire month by way of apology. His soulmate seemed to understand what had happened because a recipe appeared one day, and when John tried it after another night out with his mates it seemed to cure his hangover almost instantly. He was grateful.

When John was twenty-one he became disturbed. The jokes and formulas on his arm had stopped, and instead he was developing tiny round marks. He worried at first that his soulmate had fallen grievously ill, but when the marks appeared with increased regularity on weekends, and eventually on weekdays but only in the evening, John concluded glumly that his soulmate was imbibing in drugs. Though he didn’t exactly approve John continued to draw beautiful things on his skin to comfort his soulmate, wherever they were. Maybe it would help, maybe it wouldn’t. He didn’t know why someone would need the false crutch that narcotics provided, but he understood addictions. His family had a long history with alcohol, indeed, da had struggled daily to remain sober, but Harry didn’t even fight it. She drowned herself in booze, caring not a whit how she got it, and even took to earning it on her back.

Horror and dismay at her refusal to change spurred John to keep a tight rein on himself. Yes, he drank, but only on occasion, and only in company, and never in private. He drank with the boys in his unit wherever they were, because they needed to blow off steam, and after more than a decade and a half John knew what a lesser evil really was. He got drunk once in a while but never to the point where he blacked out, a condition that Harry seemed to need to reach before her arm stopped ferrying more drinks to her mouth. It was dreadful. When Harry met and married Clara it was alright for a while, but soon enough she was back at it, and after her divorce, Harry didn’t stop until she did herself in.

John was on his second tour in Afghanistan when it happened, a tear-filled and guilt-ridden Clara calling him herself to impart the news that Harry had drunk herself to death. She sent him Harry’s few effects, a mobile that she’d once given Clara, a key to her flat which now needed to be sold, and a photo-album filled with pictures of happier days. John applied for leave to attend his sister’s funeral but ended up not needing it. He was shot that same day, a terrible wound that ended both his careers. He was invalided out, the infection and fever that the doctors could not entirely prevent him from contracting complicating his injuries too much to allow him to remain. John’s life was over and he returned to England alone. Mum had died not long after he had enlisted, and da had followed her to the grave not long after. John had no family left, and he hadn’t had a message from his soulmate in eight years. He still drew beautiful things on his arm once a week though, just in case. It couldn’t hurt.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Sherlock stared at that same arm, running his fingertips over the scars that marred his inner elbow. Today his soulmate had gifted him with a rose so life-like it seemed real. He was proud of his soulmate’s skill, and a bit chagrined that he’d offered nothing back for so long. He didn’t exactly regret his decent into addiction but the climb out of it had been rather hellish. He had purpose now, a career of sorts, and he was as determined as he ever was to excel at it. He invented the position himself, ignoring Mycroft’s sneers, and utilizing all that he had learned throughout his life as tools to help him do what he found he did best, solve crimes. He worked mainly for the Met, but mostly because one of the DI’s had saved his life on three separate occasions, calling an ambulance when Sherlock would have certainly died from an overdose, and going so far as to determine who Sherlock’s family was, contacting Mycroft who got Sherlock into rehab.

One morning he woke with a large angry looking blotch on his left shoulder. Horrified, he realized that his soulmate had been seriously injured. His own arm felt numb, and for an entire week he had trouble using his left hand, and his leg seemed to be malfunctioning as well. He felt a shadow of despair inside himself, and for the first time in years Sherlock took up a marker and drew on his arm. He wasn’t entirely unfamiliar with humor so after a moment of thought he wrote the chemical abbreviation for sodium eight times in a row and then a cartoonish bat wearing trousers. There was no response but he was undeterred.

Each morning Sherlock looked up another chemistry joke online and drew it on his arm. This went on for forty-five days before a flower appeared on his skin. It wasn’t nearly as good as the ones he’d received in the past but Sherlock understood that his soulmate’s dominant arm was damaged, and that the drawing was the best that could be managed. Relieved, Sherlock decided to compose his soulmate a song. Now instead of silly jokes Sherlock would write a few bars of notes, and in return he received more and more flowers that slowly grew detailed once again as his soulmate healed.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

John cried the day the first joke appeared. He hadn’t heard from his soulmate in so long he wondered if he’d been entirely forgotten or worse, that his soulmate had passed away. So many things had gone wrong for John that the lame joke on his arm reduced him to a snot-filled but cathartic session of helpless weeping of relief that someone in the world still cared for him. It was difficult but eventually he took pen in hand and did his best to draw something beautiful by way of thanks. After that it was motivation for John to improved every single day, working hard at his therapies, learning to live his life anew because there was someone somewhere who was waiting for him. Yes, he was nearly forty now, but that didn’t matter. His soulmate was still alive and so was he. They would meet, he knew it.

He was back in London now, still depressed and sad, but not as much as he had been. There was still a lot of work in front of him before he was entirely mended. He was still getting used to the cane he needed, and wondering if he was finally ready to look for work. Bumping into one of his old school-chums was a bit of a miracle but not as much of one as meeting the man who would become his flatmate and best friend. Sherlock was astonishing, and privately John thought his soulmate would approve of the younger man. Both of them were brilliant, talented at so many things, and just wonderful. Living with Sherlock made John come back to life, the insane detective was so demanding that John had no time to be depressed, or sad, or bored, not ever. They ran about London solving crimes together, getting into fights, and generally living the hell out of every minute of the day.

John was making dinner one night when it occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from his soulmate in some months. He hadn’t noticed because Sherlock was so captivating. Feeling a bit guilty John took up a pen and drew on a rare _Pachliopta kotzebuea_ butterfly because their latest case was from a collector of such creatures, and John found them rather lovely, just as Sherlock had found them fascinating. The detective was currently using John’s laptop to research them, “John?”

“Yeah?” John went back to cooking.

“Nothing.” The sound of keys tapping increased for a minute and then ceased. Sherlock was obviously taking notes, but a minute later John felt a warmth on his arm. Tugging up his sleeve he grinned. His soulmate had added another stanza to The Song. Humming the tune softly John finished dinner and plated up. No amount of force or degree of threats could make Sherlock leave the sofa when he was in the middle of a big think so John decided not to fight it, simply bringing their meal to the front room.

Sherlock was looking at him oddly, “What is that you’re humming?”

“My soul-song.” answered John. He was proud of his soulmate, whoever it was. John knew enough about music thanks to them to have followed the song’s growth, and often when he was feeling low he hummed bits of it to himself and it never failed to cheer him up. He noticed that Sherlock was staring at his still rolled up sleeve, “What?” he asked. The butterfly was clearly visible, John didn’t need to be ashamed of his soulmate, he’d never bothered to hide his marks from anyone, and most people didn’t comment. He hadn’t gotten a soul-message since he’d moved in with Sherlock, so it would be his best friend’s first time seeing something from them, “They’ve been making it for a while, I’ve got it all memorized.”

Sherlock was now staring at John, his mouth hanging open. He looked utterly shocked, an expression John had never witnessed on Sherlock Holmes ever before. “John!” Sherlock breathed his name out so strangely that John grew worried for a moment. The detective was pale, stunned looking, and his hands were shaking, “John…look.”

With trembling fingers Sherlock pulled up the sleeve of his bathrobe. John nearly dropped their food. There on his arm was the _Pachliopta kotzebuea_ butterfly. John knew for a fact it had _not_ been there before. He’d seen Sherlock’s bare arm many times, “Is that..?”

“Let me see your arm better.” demanded the tall man, his voice rough and almost angry, _“Let me see!”_ he insisted almost immediately as if John had been denying him.

John set their dinner down on the side-board. With a calm he did not feel he tugged his sleeve up. The butterfly was there, exactly in the same location where Sherlock’s mark was. “It’s you!”

Without a word Sherlock took up a thick black marker. He uncapped it and drew a smiley face on his arm similar to the one that adorned Mrs. Hudson’s wallpaper. An instant later it showed up on John’s arm and both men sat down heavily. Sherlock looked stunned still but John felt light of heart. He should have known. Right from the day they’d met he should have known. Sherlock fit him like no one else. They’d moved in only a day after their introduction, were effortlessly devoted to one another, even their favorite restaurateur thought they were a couple, as did most of London. He grinned at his soulmate, and received a hesitant smile in return. “It’s _us_.” he stated.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Their discovery changed nothing and changed everything at the same time. They continued to live together, but eventually told Mrs. Hudson they’d only be needing the one room, though they kept the rent up on both. After a year or so they got quietly married, and to celebrate they turned Sherlock’s old room into a lab so John could have his kitchen back. They fought and squabbled as much as ever, but there were many evenings when the suspicious silence upstairs made Mrs. Hudson giggle fondly, knowing her two boys were deeply in love and very happily engaged in demonstrating it to each other. Sherlock kept detecting, and John remained a doctor, but only part time. They were _Consulting Husbands_ now, their reputation for solving mysteries of all sorts made them nearly as famous as John’s blog had, and with their work, and their home, their happily-ever-after made them both extremely content.

 


End file.
